


Invincible

by affluent_absolution



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: First Kiss, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, M/M, literally the whole second chapter is fluff, mental walls, messed up Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-02
Updated: 2016-11-05
Packaged: 2018-03-20 20:37:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3664125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/affluent_absolution/pseuds/affluent_absolution
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock has built enough walls to be considered invincible. Who could have known that there was a type of bomb (otherwise known as a person) out there to crash through effortlessly?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title inspired by the song "Invincible" by Aldetas Way.

When Sherlock first met John Watson, he had expected nothing more than another passing flatmate. Really, the door to each of his previously current apartments might as well have been fitted with a revolving door. Strangers enticed with the idea of living in London for half the rate soon realized that toes in the crisper and unidentified (possibly toxic) substances on the kitchen table more than doubled what they were paying, at least mentally. Sherlock had grown used to it. But this was an army man. He had nerves of steel, tolerance beyond belief-- Sherlock bet himself that the new flatmate would last a month, give or take. Likely take, he reasoned.  
"Afghanistan or Iraq?"  
"Sorry?" There was a different expression on the man's face. Confusion, yes, but also intrigue and interest. He was on edge for the rest of the meeting, for a reason he couldn't quite place. Much later, in the cab on the way to their first crime scene, he had explained the deduction.  
"That was amazing." Hold on, hold on, hold on. Amazing? Not "piss off," not "freak," not even a blank glare. Amazing.  
"That's not what people usually say."  
"What do people usually say?"  
"'Piss off'."John laughed and Sherlock had joined him. That was the moment that Sherlock knew that the army doctor would be there for longer than a month. Much longer, he hoped.

-  
"Friend?"  
"Colleague." That had hurt. But. . . that wasn't supposed to have hurt. He had walls, protections, barriers— a comment like that wasn't supposed to affect him. He was invincible.  
He had swooshed his Belstaff and carried on, hoping that no-one had noticed the falter in his voice.

-  
New walls fell, brittle and ineffective against John's words. Be they hurt (intentional or not), kindness, sadness (reflecting on his, another's, or his own), or love (towards others, obviously, that proceeding line of girlfriends that closely resembled his own history with flatmates), they all struck deep in Sherlock's core, burying themselves like slivers of ice or heat in stone. And everyone knows what happens to stone after it is pelted with ice and heat, over and over and over again-- it breaks. It tears open, fissures and cracks traversing its scarred surface; it's left vulnerable and completely and utterly raw. Sherlock had worked so hard to cover those scars, the tracks (both literal and mental) of his past, all the emotional damage the others had caused him.  
Mycroft had told him to shut up the pain, board it behind layers of toughened brick, to never let anyone see it or add further to the damage.  
But he had failed.  
All of those carefully constructed cold shoulders, reinforced by black moods, all wasted. Externally, of course, they worked fine. Everyone thought he was fine, or as fine as Sherlock Holmes, the genius virgin drug-addict freak, could ever be. Fine, fine, fine.  
He only had one path left. He could tell John. He could tell him everything, right from the beginning to the crumbling of his elaborate defense structures easier to refer to as simply "walls." The amazing, wonderful, brilliant bomb named John Watson had crashed through those walls like they were made of toothpicks and Sherlock supposed that if John left after he spilled the ruins of Rome out of his mind, it was all for the better anyways.

-  
"John?"  
"Hm?" There was no case on; John was checking his email in his chair. Sherlock was sprawled on the sofa, trying to think of something to play on his violin. He didn't know what to say next, a rare occurrence. He really didn't want to go through with this conversation at all; he knew that it was going to be awkward and terrible and oh, so very unlike him.  
"You. . ." He trailed off and scratched his head with the bow for his violin. Damn, this was difficult.  
"Sherlock?" Sherlock didn't reply. "Hey, what's wrong?" He closed the laptop to look at the man spread out on the sofa.  
"Could. . . could you make tea?" Maybe this would be easier if he didn't have to look at John.  
"Yeah." John eyed him dubiously and made his way to the kitchen. Sherlock averted his eyes as he tried to start again.  
"You know what Mycroft's philosophy of dealing with emotional pain is, right?"  
"Yeah, I suppose," John said, getting mugs from the cupboard. "Don't let anyone in, ever, right?"  
"Yes, that's the gist of it," Sherlock was glad he didn't have to explain that part, at least. "Well, as you would imagine, he taught me many of the same ideals." The mugs clinked on the counter as John placed them by the stove. "Walls have a way of being. . . breached, you know, and. . . erm. . ." Sherlock faltered and trailed off, throwing a forearm over his eyes.  
"Sherlock," John said sternly. "What's this about?"  
"You, John!" Sherlock exclaimed the blatant words without realizing what he was doing. Even so, he continued. "You, always you! I apologize for the horrible cliche, but it really is true!"  
The kettle whistled. John practically threw it off the burner.  
"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"  
"Every wall I have ever put up, every barrier, every protection-- you've gotten through them all," Sherlock finished rather quietly. He flipped inward to face the back cushions and almost jumped when he heard the mugs being softly placed on the coffee table.  
"Oh. . ." John whispered. "God, Sherlock, I-- I'm sorry."  
"It's not your fault, John," Sherlock mumbled. His face was pressed into the cushions, suffocating him. It was fine. A calloused hand lightly touched his shoulder.   
"No, Sherlock, it-- it really isn't."  
"How do you know, John?" Sherlock spun around, knocking the hand off of his shoulder. He moved to sit upright, not realizing just how close John was. The doctor stumbled backwards, but Sherlock instinctively stood and whipped his arm out, catching and steadying the man. He curled the arm in, far closer than likely necessary. He stared down at John, who stared back up at him. His arm hadn't moved from where he had caught John at the waist. Those frustratingly brilliant eyes were nearly black, the pupils taking in all they could. Before Sherlock could move, John had his fists tightly in the collar of his second best suit and was tugging his head down to meet his. Sherlock obliged, sliding his eyes closed as their lips met.  
For once, Sherlock was really fine. Because with John, joined as one, he truly felt invincible.


	2. s/o to that one sub for this fic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> i need that nano word count so s/o to you, here's a chapter (sorry if it sucks; it probably does with continuity lmao)

Sherlock feels open.

He's never felt open before.

But John has sliced him open with surgical precision, and, somehow, it doesn't hurt. It's not a bad thing.

When Victor Trevor had been in his life and Sherlock had felt the flutterings of something, something like what he feels for John but not at all, he had mashed it down so deep inside that it hurt. He isn't sure, even now, if the mashing hurt or the flutterings hurt. He thinks now that it's a little of both. He wasn't quite ready for those sorts of connections yet, so he had crushed them. He thinks it had hurt a bit to crush something new and blooming, but hurt more that he was capable of he feelings that he had despised so vehemently at the time.

But now, oh.

He feels like he's living on a cloud, and nothing can ever hurt him again.

That's not true, obviously. A serial robber had gotten the upper hand by a matter of luck just last week, and had clunked him upside the head with a rock. He'd gone down, but John had incapacitated the robber before he could touch the wound to check how deep it was. Not very, it turned out, but the rock had left a nasty scrape surrounded by purple dotted bruising, and it hurt a bit to talk for the first few days. But whatever pain he felt was immediately quelled by beautiful John pressing feather-light kisses all over his face at any given moment of the day. It was merciless and amazing and Sherlock wanted to return them but felt only capable of basking in the love John so openly bestowed on him.

It's now a week later and the cut is mostly healed; there's a few bumps of scab left, and the bruise is all but gone. He's lying on the sofa with John tucked to his front, his chin nestled at the top of John's head. They're watching some movie John likes, but Sherlock can't be arsed to care about what's going on because John is there, warm and solid in his arms, and this is everything Sherlock has wanted for ages.

"Love?" John's warm voice drifts up to Sherlock's ears, carrying a sweet name Sherlock secretly adores.

"Mm?" he hums, the lilt of a question mark drawing up the end of the sound.

"Want to go to bed? It's getting late." It's not, actually, it's only half ten. John usually goes to bed around eleven, and if Sherlock does, half eleven or midnight, depending on whether John is in bed already.

"Alright," Sherlock agrees, despite their average bedtimes. He just finished up a small case from the website and his current experiment needs to sit for thirty-two and a third hours before he can touch it again. John shifts slightly in his arms and Sherlock loosens them so John can easily pull free. Eventually, John clicks off the telly and stands, offering his hand to Sherlock. Sherlock takes it and allows himself to be hauled up and led to the bathroom, where they both brush their teeth. They both shower in the morning, so a damp flannel over their faces suffices for the night. John goes to the bedroom to change while Sherlock moisturizes, so when Sherlock returns to their room his heart stutters a little, like it does almost every night, at John burrowed under the covers in his bed. He strips quickly and climbs in next to him.

"Your toes are freezing," John complains, nudging Sherlock's feet away from him in a half-hearted attempt to bat him away.

Sherlock doesn't have a response, but he feels like John can ask him anything right now and he'll be able to answer it truthfully. He feels open and loved and utterly fantastic, and he wants to give John all of him because he wants all of John, and he's pretty sure John won't reject any part of him.

"John," he whispers, and John shifts his head to better hear Sherlock. "I love you."

"I love you too," John says, and wraps his arms around Sherlock's torso and draws him in. Sherlock presses himself up against John's torso and grins wickedly into John's chest, inhaling deeply. He fixes his arm over John's waist. John, with his masterful timing, limping into Sherlock's life at the perfect time for Sherlock to fall desperately in love. 


End file.
